Chapter 25 #2
"Yes, exactly," my father says. "I still want her to have some creative say, but having these guardrails and us being the final decision-makers will be best."
"Great, I'm glad we're aligned on this," Richard continues. "The investors were concerned about putting a twenty-six-year-old woman in full control of the property. But when I explained the structure, they were much more comfortable."
I feel the words land like physical blows, a chill settling in my stomach, a cold horror spreading through my chest as the full scope of what I'm hearing crashes over me.
My father says, "I just have to figure out how to present this to her. The safety net stays in place until I'm confident she can fly without it."
He believes it. He genuinely believes that he's protecting me. And he'll never see it, that his love has teeth. It suddenly hits me and I feel so naive and foolish to have believed all this time that things would be different, that New York would be different, that he would finally trust me.
It’ll never change. He'll never believe in me enough to release the control. All these years I've had these moments where I think if I just do this right, if I just prove myself one more time, I'll finally earn his respect, his faith. How fucking stupid of me.
I walk into the office.
My father is by the window, mid-pace, and he turns when he sees me. The phone is on the desk, Richard's voice still coming through the speaker, saying something about investor confidence metrics.
My father's face registers surprise and then a quick calculation. "Isabelle," he says. "You're early. We said eight fifteen."
"We said seven fifteen." My voice is surprisingly steady despite the rage building in my chest. "And I heard every word of that fucking bullshit conversation."
I walk to the desk and pick up the phone, looking at the screen. Richard Crane's name and number glowing there, mocking me.
"Richard," I say into the speaker, my voice cold. "Isabelle Beaumont. The pretty face for the marketing materials. I'll let you and my father finish your conversation later about how to best position me as a decorative element. Oh, and fuck you very much."
I hang up the phone and slam it down on the desk.
"Isabelle," my father says, and he has the nerve to sound shocked. "That is inexcusable. Hanging up on an investor like that. Richard and I were discussing operational logistics, not diminishing your role. You're still the creative leader, in a certain sense."
"The creative leader who doesn't need to know the operational details," I say, my voice rising despite my best efforts to stay calm. "The face that tests well with under-forties. The woman-focused brand that investors feel more comfortable having experienced men manage behind the scenes."
"You're twisting his words," my father says, shaking his head like I'm a child misunderstanding a simple concept.
"I'm repeating his words!" I yell, and I don't care anymore about staying composed, about being reasonable.
"And you agreed with him. What the hell is wrong with you that you can't see how much of a betrayal this is?
If you don't think I'm ready, fucking tell me.
Don't make me into some puppet chef while you and Richard pull the strings from behind the curtain! "
"I am protecting you," he says, and he says it with such conviction, such belief in his own rightness, that for a second I almost waver. Almost. Because he means it, in his own twisted way he thinks he's helping. But I've heard this song too many times now.
"You're not protecting me," I say, my voice breaking slightly. "You're controlling me like you always do. You don't believe in me, and I'm so stupid to have thought that you ever would."
"That is dramatic," he says, his voice hardening now. "I have given you every opportunity. Le Cordon Bleu, the stages in Paris, and now New York. Every step of your career has been built on opportunities I created for you."
"And I have always been grateful! I have always thanked you and worked hard to make you proud," I say, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.
"I didn't even ask for New York, you told me since I was a teenager I'd take it over.
I did everything to prove I was ready. And you couldn't just tell me you don't believe in me?
You sneak around, you sent Alex to spy on me, you lie to my face! "
"Isabelle, the opportunities that were given were—"
"The opportunities were controlled," I interrupt.
"You chose the school I went to, you chose the stages, you chose New York.
You sent Alex to Napa to evaluate me. You brought Olivier to opening night despite me telling you to stop with that shit.
You finalized the New York menu without consulting me. "
"You wanted those things," he says, and his voice is maddeningly calm. "You want to cook. You want to run a kitchen. You want to build something extraordinary. That's exactly what I'm giving you, just with some safety nets."
"I wanted to make you proud!" I say, and I hate that tears are burning behind my eyes. "I wanted some proof that you actually believe in me. You're right, I did want to cook and run a kitchen, but not fucking like this."
"Isabelle," he says. "Yes, I make decisions without consulting you, because I have decades of experience in this industry, and part of loving someone is protecting them.
I do think you're capable. And in five years, when you're more experienced and established, you'll be running the best restaurant in New York City and you'll call me and say, 'Papa, you were right. '"
"No, you're not hearing me. I don't even know if I care about that place," I say, the tears threatening to spill over now.
"It's about the fact that you can't stop lying to me, controlling me.
You won't ever believe in me? Why don't you believe in me?
I do everything I can to try and get your approval. "
"I do believe in you, Isabelle. But when you talk like this it's impossible to reason with you," he shakes his head dismissively. "Listen, when you do come to New York you'll see that it isn't really—"
"No," I say, and the word comes out flat and final. "I'm not going to do this. I'm not going to run the New York restaurant."
He goes completely still. "What did you say?"
"I said I'm not doing it," I say, and each word feels like stepping off a cliff. "New York. The flagship. I'm done. I don't want it. I don't even know if I ever wanted it or if I just wanted to please you so badly that I convinced myself I did. I don't even like cooking the food that place serves!"
"You are not thinking clearly," he says. "You're upset about a conversation you overheard out of context and you're making a decision you'll regret. I know you, Isabelle, and you—"
"I've never been thinking more clearly," I interrupt.
"And you don't know everything about me, Papa.
You think you do. You think you've mapped out every detail of my life and my career and my future.
But you don't know everything. You don't know that I've been sleeping with Alex. That I’m in love with him. "
You could hear a pin drop in the sudden silence.
My father's face does something I've never seen it do before. The certainty, the unshakeable Jean-Pierre Beaumont certainty that has been the foundation of every conversation I've ever had with him, cracks. Just for a second. A fracture line running through granite.
"What did you say?" he says quietly.
And I know I shouldn't do this, that Alex and I agreed to keep it quiet, and some part of me is horrified that I'm blowing up his deal, that I'm ruining everything we've been so careful to protect.
But it's like I'm watching a train wreck happen in slow motion and I can't stop it. The angry part of me, the hurt part, spits it out with such venom that I barely recognize my own voice.
"Alex," I say. "I've been with him for the last month. And you had no idea, because you don't even know me at all. And fuck you for sending Olivier, who by the way threatened me. Real fucking good judgment call there. You know nothing about what's actually happening in my life!"
"Well, then Alex manipulated you into this," he says, and now his voice is rising, color flooding his face.
"And you are a fool to let yourself be used like this.
You know better than to jeopardize business for some.
.. some kitchen fling with an opportunist. He's using you, Isabelle. He saw dollar signs and he—"
"No," I cut him off, my voice shaking with fury. "He loves me. And how dare you threaten him with your deal in the first place, you sexist, controlling prick! How dare you make your investment in his dream contingent on him staying away from me like I'm some possession!"
"This conversation is over," he says, his voice going ice-cold in that way that used to terrify me when I was a child. "You're going to go back to your room, you're going to calm down, and we're going to discuss this rationally when you've had time to think and stop being hysterical."
"This conversation is over," I agree. "Because I'm going back to Napa to finish my pop-up.
The one I actually created, the one I actually ran.
Which has been a big fucking success, by the way.
And after that, I'm going to build my own restaurant, in my own way, without your money and without your control. "
Some distant part of my brain asks how exactly I’m going to do that, but I shut that part down. I have a little money saved, I have references and connections. I'll figure it out. I turn and walk toward the door and I don't look back again.
I take the elevator down to my floor, my hands shaking so badly I have to press the button three times before it registers. I go to my room and sit on the bed with my hands in my lap and I stare at the wall and I breathe, in and out, trying to process what I just did.
I pull out my phone with trembling fingers.
Alex is already back in Napa, probably in the kitchen by now, and my flight doesn't get in until this afternoon.
I need to warn him that I just destroyed his Seattle deal, that my father is probably already on the phone with his lawyers figuring out how to pull out of the investment.
I need to tell him I'm sorry, that I didn't mean to blow everything up, that I just couldn't hold it in anymore.
I dial his number. It rings once, twice, three times, and goes to voicemail.
"Dammit, Alex!" I say to the empty room, and then I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like I just detonated a bomb and I'm still waiting to see how much damage the blast caused.